Mona Lisa's Successor
by NeverLookBackSamurai
Summary: Leonardo takes another draught from his cup as he steps away from his finished work. Briefly, his eyes flicker to his second greatest masterpiece—the woman with the mysterious mocking smile—and he reflects that that painting will never amount to this one.


Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or anything related to Ubisoft in any way or form.

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A/N: Birthday and end-of-finals celebration present to myself and my readers, who make me happy with reviews through even the most grueling moments. No real idea what this is; it just… is.

Inspiration is "Ezio's Family" by Jesper Kyd.

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Day breaks just as the last stroke of a brush finishes the painting Leonardo has been working on for a year. As he sets the brush down on his color palette, he lifts the cup of wine to his lips, drinking deep, and his bloodshot eyes roam longingly over the face of the figure in the painting.

The image is of a young man half-naked, laying on a plush settee, draped in rich crimson velvet, the sun bright in the background, haloing the sleeping figure whose face looks oh so sweetly vulnerable in repose. Decadent chocolate hair falls in gentle waves down his neck, framing an angelic face. His left arm runs the length of his abdomen, disappearing at the elbow behind a curtain of scarlet before reappearing as his wrist and hand drapes over a hip. The right arm rests languidly against a deeply golden pillow; long, elegant fingers curl almost feminine-like against the smooth cheek, above which fan delectably thick lashes. Blushed lips part seductively as the Adonis youth slumbers peacefully, his chest beautifully sculpted, and the artist knows the youth is anything _but_ innocent.

Leonardo takes another draught from his cup as he steps away from his finished work. Briefly, his eyes flicker to his second greatest masterpiece—the woman with the mysterious mocking smile—and he reflects that that painting will never amount to the one before him now.

The painter closes his eyes, the tang of wine still fresh on his tongue, as he remembers the liquid bursting from another's lips as they kissed his own. As always, the man in the painting mutters a quick '_salve_,' before his lips crush the artist's in a smoldering kiss.

Callused fingers brush against the Leonardo's cheek in tender caresses, never bruising; but they are always in _pain_, as elation and pleasure are tainted with the knowledge that this glorious time could be their _last_.

Like all the times before, armor, blades, brushes, and chisels are strewn across the floor as they make their way to the bed, limbs tangling as they fall. And then it's all Leonardo can do to keep himself from _weeping _in pleasure as a smooth, flawless baritone whispers in his ear…

dazzling…

_mesmerizing_…

…until the passion of their lovemaking reaches unprecedented heights, and even Leonardo's genius mind struggles for verbal coherency.

Again and again, they make love out of desperation and urgency, knowing all too well that this is entirely _wrong_, but it feels so _damn right_, and neither of them care in the slightest as they move together, voices rising and falling as one in a symphony only the night can induce between two lovers.

And at last when they collapse out of sheer need for air, there is no sense of satisfaction, of fulfillment; only an uncontrollable desire for _more_, because to them, there is no such thing as eternity—only life and death, and the knowledge that what they have between them is a miracle no one can take from them. And all this, Leonardo knows, is the inspiration for the last painting in his life; a part of his soul in physical form, created for the lover he lost in years long past…

Breathless, Leonardo stumbles out of his drunken reverie and crashes headlong into the easel, gripping the masterpiece and, in a moment of madness born from years of self-loathing and anguish for his lost beloved, throws the canvas into the blazing hearth. His feverish eyes glow as the flames consume the painstakingly beautiful work, and the artist slowly slips to the floor in a daze as he watches the painting burn until there are naught but ashes amongst the dying embers.

The full cup of crimson wine slips from his hand and clatters to the floor, spreading its scarlet brilliance beneath the painter's head in a garish halo, and the tears of Ezio's angel fall, crystalline and pure until the artist breathes his last, and with him goes the name of the true vision of Leonardo da Vinci's last painting…

_Amore Mio_.


End file.
